Building
by SerenityJ
Summary: What happened to everyone after being liberated from Stalag 13? And what do you do when there is no such thing as 'The End' in real life?
1. The First Supper

A/N: LOOOOOOOOOOOOVE! HH is looooooove!

Updated 12/8/2011: Thanks to Belphegor for the French assistance!

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Just the entire series on DVD. Yum.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

It had been a week since their liberation from Stalag 13. American commandoes had taken the camp with overwhelming force hours after Berlin fell.

Newkirk didn't remember much after that; life had been a blur of top brass asking extensive questions and the rescued POWs being slowly moved to London.

Once there, the men of the camp had been treated like kings—single rooms, new uniforms—they weren't discharged; the war was still on, after all, and pilots were needed in the Pacific arena.

The Heroes were served excellent food, but they found themselves craving prison fare more than once.

Newkirk couldn't understand why he _wanted_ brown bread, why he almost _missed_ hearing Schultz wake them up each morning for roll call. He didn't want to ask those things aloud. Luckily, on their first night in London, Carter asked for him.

"Colonel?"

"Yes, Carter?"

"D'you think they've got any brown bread?"

There was a pause, and Carter looked sheepish.

"Now, why would you want to eat that, Carter?"

"Well, sir…I guess I just got used to it."

Another pause.

"I'd like a piece too, sir."

Carter swiftly turned his head to the right to look at Newkirk, who had just spoken.

Down the table, Kinch slowly pushed his plate away from him.

LeBeau glared at Newkirk from across the table, took a bite of pastry in protest, and then looked like he was going to cry as he hid his face behind his cup to drink. He slammed his drink down in frustration and crossed his arms.

Newkirk knew not to say anything.

No one looked up from their plates.

"I'll be right back," Hogan said, rising from the table.

"It shouldn't be like this. It's not _supposed_ to be like this!" Carter moaned.

"You'd think that with all of LeBeau's fine cooking we'd be used to civilian food." Newkirk looked up expectantly at the Frenchman as he spoke. Louis allowed a smile at the compliment, then said, "We didn't eat well _that _often, mon ami."

"It looks like it's going to take us a while to get used to having normal lives," Kinch said.

_Normal lives_. The words hung uncomfortably in the air.

"I miss Schultz!" Carter suddenly exclaimed. Everyone laughed.

"'Ey, why don't we go visit 'im after 'es been cleared?" Newkirk chuckled. "With all we've said about 'im, they might as well make him an Allied hero!"

"Pauvre Schultz," LeBeau grinned. "I'll send him an apple strudel tomorrow."

"Ach-TUNG!" A voice boomed through the doorway, and everyone was instantly on their feet.

"Bread?" Hogan cheerfully asked as he walked into the room, carrying a massive tray of the stuff.

"Bloody hell, Colonel."

Hogan laughed.

xoxoxoxoxoxox

That night, the first spent in a real bed in more years than any of them cared to think upon, Newkirk couldn't sleep. He couldn't understand why. The bed was comfy, there were no patrols going past his window, no spotlights periodically tracing the floor, no one else in the room…and then he realized that the things that _should_ have made it hard for him to sleep were the only things that _could _help him.

He drowsily stumbled into the hallway and promptly collided with LeBeau.

"Qu'est-ce que tu fabriques?" hissed his French comrade.

"Can't sleep," Newkirk muttered. Louis calmed down a bit.

"Me neither," he shrugged.

After a minute Newkirk spoke.

"Is it wrong that all I want to do is grab my blanket and kip out on the floor with everyone?"

Lack of sleep had lowered his inhibitions and self consciousness.

"Y'know, so I can hear everyone and _know_ they're all there and safe and if anything happened I could protect them?"

He leaned against the wall in exhaustion.

"I don't know if I can do this, Louis. We did nothing but talk about going back to our lives, but now that we can, I'm not so sure I want to."

His face was angled towards the ground. LeBeau leaned against the wall facing Newkirk before replying.

"Everything changes in wartime," he said softly. "No one is going back to a normal life. People have died, towns have been destroyed, factories have been converted—it's going to take awhile and nothing is going to be the exact same as before the war. You know that."

Newkirk was silent as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and curled his knees into his body.

Louis went back into his room for a minute, then returned with a blanket. He sat down next to his friend and threw the blanket over them both.

"There. I'll let you protect me tonight. Happy?"

Newkirk grinned, head on his knees.

"You know," LeBeau continued, closing his eyes as he leaned against the wall, "If you want, Pierre, you can come live with me in Paris until you get used to the world."

"What's wrong with London?" Newkirk asked without moving.

"The food is terrible, and the girls aren't as attractive." Newkirk grinned again at LeBeau's reply.

Time passed before either spoke again.

"Louis?"

"Mmmm?"

"You awake?"

"What do you think?"

"Louis, what about the others?"

"What about them?"

"What if we don't see 'em again?"

"Imbécile. Of course we will see them again. What a stupid question."

"But what if we don't?"

"Newkirk. Stop thinking and go to sleep."

And he did.


	2. Survivors

A/N: This is so far from my original plan, it's ridiculous. This is the end (for now) because I can't think of a satisfactory way to talk about the intermittent years, but maybe someday….

Cheers to everyone who reviewed!

"Turn it off," LeBeau said without looking up.

Newkirk reached out to press the 'power' button on the remote control.

"What's with you?" he said as he settled back into his chair.

"I'm done with war."

LeBeau turned to the next page in Le Figaro. It was a few weeks old, but as he was reading an editorial column, he didn't much care.

"You can't just ignore the news, Louis," Newkirk said.

"Yes, I can."

They fell back into silence. Newkirk gripped his cane with a wrinkled hand and shifted his weight towards it so he could stand. He made his way over to the couch where LeBeau was sitting. Rain was hitting the roof in muffled staccato beats and running down the windows that had recently been re-insulated.

"Carter's grandson is going to graduate into this mess as an officer," Newkirk said when LeBeau made to turn another page.

"Another reason not to watch," the Frenchman muttered.

"Louis."

"_Quoi_?"

"Don't ignore this."

Louis LeBeau slowly folded his newspaper back up. He stood and shuffled over to the computer desk, where he placed the paper next to the monitor that was at least four years old. Newkirk adjusted his glasses and watched as Louis turned towards the blank television.

"I don't need to watch it to know what happens next," LeBeau said quietly, French accent strong even after five years of living in England.

"Always a good idea to keep up with current events," Newkirk replied.

"It does not matter for us," Louis said, shuffling back to the couch.

" 'Course it does," Newkirk grinned. "Never would have met the second wife if I hadn't been able to talk about the bloody moon landing for an hour."

Louis smiled for the first time all day. "_Elle était très belle_," he said with a grin.

"Not as pretty as Madeline," Newkirk said, returning the grin.

Louis's smile broadened as he remembered the love of his life as she had been on her wedding day, auburn hair shining in the sun as she held her lavender-rich bouquet close. Even in the last years of her life, she had been beautiful. Louis dragged himself back into the present to look at his longtime friend and current housemate.

"Isn't it _amusant, _Pierre?" LeBeau asked, staring out the window.

"What?"

"If it was not for my wrinkled skin and my decades of memories, I would almost believe that time had stopped for me."

"What are you on about?"

"I started—and will most likely end—my adult life in your company."

"You say that like it's something to be ashamed of," Newkirk joked.

"Never," LeBeau said seriously.

"Can't've hurt that I just so happened to have had an extra room and scads of grandchildren eager to check up on me, eh? I'm a much more attractive option than one of those 'homes' for gents our age." Peter Newkirk's eyes twinkled as LeBeau tried not to smile.

"It would be better if you had women here, _non_?" LeBeau's smile appeared again. He looked out on the rain-soaked field beyond the window and leaned back against the sofa cushions.

"Louis." Newkirk looked serious again.

"What is it now?" LeBeau asked contentedly.

"I think we should watch the news."

LeBeau pretended not to hear Newkirk.

"I think we should know what's happening."

LeBeau blinked and looked down at his gnarled hands. They were covered in spots and veins. He could remember them as they had looked when he was chopping onions for his mother when he was twelve.

"I know what is happening," LeBeau said as he gripped his hands together.

"Do you?"

"Men with power are making plans for good men to go off and die to make the world less evil."

"Women, too."

"It won't work."

"I know." Newkirk stood up to get the remote. "But evil can't just vanish off the face of the earth, can it?"

"I thought it did," LeBeau said, remembering the euphoria of V-E Day.

"So did I," Newkirk said as he rejoined his friend on the couch, remote in hand. "But the rest of the bloody century should have—"

"—you just have to push a button now, Pierre," LeBeau interrupted.

"Yes."

"It should not be that easy to kill people."

"It's not," said Newkirk, gripping his cane tightly. He remembered the flash beneath him as he turned his bomber back to England, mission accomplished. "It never was."

Louis closed his eyes against his own memories. After a minute, he spoke.

"Turn it on," he said, opening his eyes. Newkirk hit the 'power' button again. They watched silently as two towers crumbled back into the earth in a cloud of smoke and ash.

LeBeau's eyes burned as he tried not to think. Newkirk's hands were shaking as they held his cane in his lap.

"Pierre," LeBeau said eventually, voice cracking. "I don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

"How are any humans still alive? After so many centuries of hatred and fighting?"

Newkirk wrenched his eyes away from the screen to look at the blank face of his oldest living friend.

"We're survivors," he said honestly. They looked at each other. Finally LeBeau nodded.

"_C'est vrai_."

"Is that enough, do you think?"

"For now."

They continued to watch the news late into the night, secure in the knowledge that they would endure.


End file.
